


Immortals

by TheHiddenPassenger



Series: Phoenix [2]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Fall Out Boy, Skrillex (Musician)
Genre: American Beauty/American Psycho, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, Immortals, M/M, Save Rock and Roll, Young Blood Chronicles, danger days, fall out boy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5050090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHiddenPassenger/pseuds/TheHiddenPassenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in the aftermath of "I am not the Phoenix that you wanted"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immortals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DangerDuchess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerDuchess/gifts).



“ _I am the sand in the bottom half of the hour glass...I try to picture me without you, but I can't.”_

_~_

Patrick knew, the moment he'd stepped—or rather, been carried—through that portal things could never go back to the way they had been. Even when he watched himself die...the self that had actually lost his hand, been beaten, abused, tortured, had his organs removed and eaten and replaced with who knew what and a music-hating demon, the vocalist's mind was trying its best to compensate, to wrap itself around the new reality.

But reality had suddenly stretched.

It was without depth and he was not ready for that fact. As far as support went, Pete was around far more frequently, as his battered self had demanded. Together, they suffered. It was, Patrick supposed, better than suffering alone, but he would have spared Pete this agony, if he had the power. As fate would have it, however, he did not. Neither of them did. They made their choice, for better or worse.

Two realities swam in their heads. One was a world that could have been, but was not, constantly playing out behind their eyelids in the red and black flashes of void and dreams. The other surrounded them, held them up as heroes, leaders of a movement. Pete had done his best to explain what he thought was happening to their friends, but Joe and Andy had no hope of really empathizing. It was one thing to outline a multiverse theory playing out in your head, but another entirely to actually live it.

That was not to say they were without sympathy. No one was careful, per se, Patrick had emphasized his craving for normalcy, but there was a certain tip-toe dance that had to happen in order to remain focused and organized. This was not over. Courtney's cell might have been ruptured, but there were plenty of splinters to be removed from the flesh of the rock and roll landscape, and even more bodies to clean up.

“Are you doing alright?” Pete was the only one allowed to ask this question, that had become clear in the first week after their return. In response, the ginger nodded and tucked his head further into the pillow resting closest to his friend's bare, tattooed chest.

The bassist was not afraid to ask again if he thought his humble, broken friend was not telling the truth. Patrick had learned it was fruitless to lie to Pete Wentz. The man might have been an incorrigible playboy at one point in his life, but that era was in the past and had only really been a mask to hide deep agony. This had made Pete capable of full-on protector mode. It was in this state of being Pete would be until his friend told him to leave.

Tonight, they were snuggled close, warming each other under several layers of Patrick's blankets, sheets, throws and coverlet. The sky far above was clear and dark, no moon to defend her luminous children from the synthetic illumination glaring defiantly up at her now-vacant kingdom. Pete shifted minutely, his grip on his friend sliding from his mid-back to the little fellow's upturned hip.

“I'm losing too much weight,” Patrick interjected before Pete could express concern. He knew the tattooed man was going to make some sort of comment of that nature when he felt the firm hand squeezing down on the minimal flesh covering his hip bone.

“Maybe,” Pete admitted, sheepishly retracting his hand. Patrick caught it as it slid away and returned the warm thing to its spot on his hip. With that permission, the bassist left his hand where his friend had settled it, dipping his head to kiss the top of that fine-haired head with all the tenderness his shattered psyche could manage.

Patrick felt his friend's thick, soft lips on his scalp. Sometimes, he'd look in the mirror and pluck at his thin, fair hair, clicking his tongue disapprovingly and reaching for his little black fedora. His aim was always to cover that which shook his faltering nerves, any insecurity, weakness...and on more than one occasion, Pete had stopped him with a gentle hand on his and lips elsewhere.

He realized that this memory was actually his, that it had happened recently and the knowledge brought tears to already-reddened eyes. Lately, distinguishing what he actually remembered and what had been imparted to him by...him was becoming increasingly more difficult for them. He suspected it would continue this way as they approached 2019. After that? Patrick honestly wondered if they would survive the inevitable side-by-side march of both timelines.

But they'd done right. They'd stood on the side of justice, righteousness and, most importantly, of music. Patrick tilted his head up to graze his olive-skinned partner's throat with soft, pink lips. Pete swallowed gingerly, his Adam's apple bobbing rhythmically with the reflex. Patrick had this way about him, an accidental gentleness that brought pangs of guilt, melancholy and regret to Pete's heart. It made him remember his promise to himself, forced him to realize the difficult position in which he found himself. It was not one he'd trade for anything, however.

“I wish I'd have done better,” Pete mumbled into Patrick's upturned forehead, “y'know? I mean, I wish I would've thought...maybe ahead, or...”

The lyricist was, for once, at a complete loss for words. This was a common occurrence around Patrick, though. The miniscule vocalist was heart-stoppingly lovely in any light, even very little, as was the environment now.

“Thought ahead about accidentally jumping through a portal that tossed us into an alternate future created due to our absence?” Patrick summarized, making Pete's regret seem dumb. In fact, when it was put that way, the bassist was forced to give up moaning about it, because in reality, there was nothing that could have been done better in that case.

“Okay, you're right,” admitted Pete with some hesitance, “but I sorta also meant the other stuff, y'know? The running and flakiness and bullshit I put you guys through all those years...”

Patrick couldn't argue that Pete had stuffed him through the ringer for a majority of their friendship, to say nothing of what he'd done to Mikey Way. No, some things were better left unsaid. It was easier that way.

And they needed all the easy they could get, in their lives. The war raged on all around them and though it seemed they were winning for now, the Young Bloods had no choice but to keep vigilant, lest their worst fears be realized in the form of Better Living Industries.

“You were a kid,” Patrick reminded his friend after a few moments. It was a feeble excuse for something that was inexcusable, but it was good enough for Patrick. Judging by the way Mikey was around and not avoiding Pete at all costs, it was good enough for him, as well. They had bigger problems, anyway.

“You said we were meeting with some guys later this evening, right?” Pete interjected with a completely different train of thought, having utterly derailed the first with careful precision.

“Yeah, you remember Sonny Moore, right?” Patrick responded, shifting so he could look Pete in the eyes. Pete nodded.

“Van's Warped...'05 or...'06? I dunno, somewhere around there,” estimated the lyricist, “what's he got to do with this crazy crusade? He's not exactly on the 'rock and roll' team, anymore.”

“Music is music,” scolded Patrick, “and right now, his genre's never been bigger. We need allies and so do they.”

Pete nodding, unable to dispute the brilliance of this strategy. It wasn't like he was completely unfamiliar with the genre. The festivals were huge, packed with half-dressed people on hard drugs and covered in neon lights. It wasn't rock and roll, but it was certainly loud and proud, which would draw the attention of...whoever was pulling the strings on this whole thing.

“I hear he's got friends, too, powerful ones...like, scary powerful,” Patrick's voice was an excited quiver, “I mean, we're talking singers, musicians, like, regular ones—and guys that have been in metal-electronic fusion groups, which I think is just the volume we need.”

Pete loved it when Patrick got all excited about the cause. It was dangerous, of course, and ridiculous-sounding, but it was real, it was happening and if they didn't defend themselves, they were going down with it.

“Alright,” Pete said finally, by way of calming his friend down, grasping Patrick's gentle hands in his own, “but maybe slow down a little, ya think? I mean, you've bee going non-stop, we all have. I know this is vital, but I don't want you to—”

“To die?” Patrick interrupted. “I've already done that once, so have the guys. We've got no time to sit back and relax. We have to go 'til we can't anymore. This isn't a negotiation, Pete. It's a race.”

“Alright, I get your point,” sighing heavily, the bassist nodded, “and I'll help.”

Obviously, Patrick hadn't planned on going alone. Pete was good friends with Sonny's current partner in musical crime, Thomas Wesley Pentz and likely had the man in his phone, as well. The more connections the better, after all. It was good to hear Pete affirm his presence, regardless of what he already knew, with whom he was acquainted and actions already taken to strengthen their side.

“Besides,” Patrick added darkly after a second, “I heard Sonny lost one of his guys recently to a group of heavily armed women.”

“That sounds like they're playin' our song.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this several months ago, but was determined not to post it until Phoenix was finished... Well, it's not the Epilogue that you wanted, but at least it's something~


End file.
